


take, if you want a slice

by blooddrool



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Language, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Game(s), Shower Sex, Smut, established reaper76, significantly more fluff than i intended, threesome of the century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 21:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11449083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool
Summary: He slides off the bed with a fluidity that Jesse just loves to watch.  He wishes he could mimic it, in combat and in life.  Reyes shuffles towards the closet, kicks his fatigues off and pulls sweatpants on.  He's real pretty.Jesse sits up against the headboard, draws his knees up and rests his chin on them like a kid.  Watches.  Reyes tugs his day-old undershirt off, and Jesse says, “Don't put a clean one on.”  His voice lilts up like it might be a question, but Reyes smiles at him and it's good, it's so good.





	take, if you want a slice

**Author's Note:**

> more mcreaper76 in the same universe as [come together with your hands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10958361) because, fuck, i love these three. my roommate asked for more jack, so i gave her more jack. 
> 
> reading the first fic is not at all necessary, but it might help you understand the dynamic if you do.

Reyes tells him when it’s just the three of them, closed off in the Commanders’ quarters.

 

“You're suspended,” he says, tilt to his mouth like he ain’t pleased.

 

“I am _not_ ,” Jesse replies, and even he knows that he sounds like a kid.  Bitchin’ and whinin’.

 

“Sit down, McCree.”

 

Jesse shakes his head, offsets his jaw to one side.  It isn't fair.  Except it is and he knows it.  But here he is, butting heads, chewing it up and choking it down instead of just admitting it.

 

Reyes says, “Jesse,” and he’s all stern-toned and tired-eyed.  It makes Jesse swallow, look off to the side.  Morrison clicks his tongue when he walks by them, rolls his eyes, like they’re boring him to death.  He sits down on the couch, folds one knee over the other, pulls out his tablet.  Ignores them.

 

It’s so subtle; Jesse hates it.  He scrunches his nose, looks at Reyes, and falls down onto the couch as well.  They're both a couple of pricks.  Jesse folds his arms over his chest, slouches down and lets his legs sprawl open.  His calf touches Morrison’s shin.  He lets it rest there.

 

“You’re both a couple’a fuckin’ pricks,” he says.

 

“And you're _suspended_ ,” Reyes replies.  He cocks his hip, folds his arms over his chest, which just makes him look bigger.  “Whole fuckin’ squad coulda died for that shit you pulled.”

 

“Didn't though, did they?”

 

Reyes looks him right in the eye, and Jesse knows he shouldn't have said that.  Shouldn't have _fucking_ said that.

 

“You think you're some hot shit, Jesse?” he says.  He puts his boot up on the coffee table, only thing between he and Jesse, and leans down on his knee.  His eyes aren't mean, but his mouth is frustrated, irritated at best, “‘Cause you got good aim and your Commander in bed?  Not out there, kid — there ain't gonna be any special treatment when we're out there.”

 

Jesse swallows, nods a little because he gets it, and then, because he just can't help himself, says, “Do I get my special treatment in here, though?”

 

Morrison snorts a laugh, shakes the couch with it.  Jesse thinks he might get one out of Reyes, too, but–

 

“Fuckin’ _dammit_ , Jesse,” he says, and it's tired and angry and sore.  Reyes doesn't even look at him when he turns, stomps his way into the bedroom and shoulders the door closed behind him.  Goddamn drama queen.  Jesse makes to go after him, and Morrison catches him by his belt.  Pulls him back down onto the couch.

 

“You shouldn't poke him like that,” he says, and Jesse’s frown turns a little bit pouty.

 

“Was just tryin’ to get ‘im to crack a grin.”

 

“You were trying to get him off your ass.”

 

“Wouldn’t’a minded that much either.”

 

Morrison chuckles again, puts his tablet to the side and leans back.  Offhandedly, Jesse wonders how this fair-haired, blue-eyed beauty ended up with a voice like a guitar in a gutter.

 

“So how long, then?” Jesse asks.  He sighs, stretches his legs out, kicks his boots off under the coffee table.

 

“Until what?” Morrison looks at him, his boots, “Put those away.”

 

“‘Til I ain't _suspended_ no more,” he says the word like he hasn't earned it, groans as he gets up to put his boots where they belong.  He feels Morrison watching him, _sees_ Morrison watching him when he comes back.

 

Morrison blinks once, “Hell if I know,” and he reminds Jesse of a bird, sometimes, “You're not my problem to deal with.”

 

Jesse scoffs, makes a face.  He goes to sit down but Morrison swings his legs up onto the couch, stretches out on it, sighs big and loud.

 

“Don’t you got paperwork or somethin’?” Jesse asks, but Morrison raises an eyebrow, spreads his legs so that one hangs off the side.  

 

Jesse scrunches his nose and tosses his hat onto the table.  Morrison doesn't really even fit on the couch, and Jesse ain't small, but he flops himself down anyways.  It makes Morrison grunt and tighten up his gut — Jesse can feel him get firm and then soft under him, and he sprawls out the best he can, legs between Morrison’s, arm slung off the side.

 

“I wanna go talk to ‘im,” he says, cheek pressed into Morrison’s chest.

 

“No you don’t.”

 

“Sure I do.  Feelin’ like a fuckin’ asshole, now.”

 

“Mouth too smart for your own good, huh?”

 

Jesse huffs, sinks into Morrison like a pebble in seafoam, “Maybe he just needs t’ lighten the fuck up.”

 

Morrison huffs a laugh and Jesse can feel his chest shake, hear the sound bounce around in his lungs, “Maybe you need to reel it in.”

 

“Can't reel none’a this in,” Jesse says, and he lifts his face off the Strike-Commander’s chest just enough to throw him a grin, “A stud like me ain't meant to be corralled, sir.”

 

Jesse feels him laugh again, feels his hair get tugged, and he likes it a lot.  He rests his head back down, closes his eyes, sighs like a dog in the sun.  Morrison gets it; he keeps his fingers threaded in Jesse’s hair.

 

“Give him a few hours,” he says, quieter now, “Let him cool off so he doesn't kick you through a wall.”

 

“Wouldn't be the first time.”

 

“I doubt it'd be the last.”

 

Jesse hums; he is still smiling.

 

———

 

Reyes is out cold when Jesse slips into the bedroom.  He's stretched out on top of the covers, wrapped around a pillow because Jesse found out real quick that Gabriel Reyes, Blackwatch Commander, is one hell of a snuggler.  He's still in his fatigues and boots, and Jesse wonders how the fuck he thought he could get away with that.

 

Morrison hasn't come in yet.  Jesse sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls one of Reyes’ feet into his lap.  He works the knot in the laces until he can tug them loose, pulls at each set of eyelets until the boot slides off easy.  When he grabs at Reyes’ other leg, it moves away from him, bends up, and Jesse chases it.

 

“Quit movin’,” he says, and he sure isn't Jack Morrison, but Reyes falls still all the same.

 

The other boot comes off and Jesse gets up to set them nice and neat by the closet.  When he turns back, Reyes is squinting at him.

 

He blinks, falls next to Reyes on the bed, says, “Y’all stare a lot.”

 

Reyes grunts, doesn't move.  His eyes are dark even after his nap, tired as hell, but his mouth is slack, curved up a little, and he says, “‘S just ‘cause you look funny.”

 

“Sure know how to make a guy feel special, dontcha”

 

“Caught you ‘n’ Jack,” and he snakes his arm around Jesse’s waist, pulls him in close like a ragdoll, “Musta done somethin’ right.”

 

Jesse squirms to get comfortable under his arm; Reyes always gives off heat like an open flame, and he feels like he's already spent enough of his day laying around — with another man. He ain't bothered, but if they put a pillow case on him one day, he wouldn't be surprised.  He takes a breath.  He could probably pass out for the night here.  It’s late, but it isn't that late.

 

“I’m really suspended, boss?” he asks, ready to feel Reyes tense up against him, but he just noses into Jesse’s hair.

 

“Yeah.  Three weeks.”

 

Jesse tries to twist around and he flails, kicks Reyes in the shin, says, “ _Three fuckin’ weeks?_ ”

 

Reyes grips him tighter around the middle, holds him relatively still, “You got Sheppard sent to the medbay, _cabrón_.  Ziegler says it could be a month-long recovery.  So — three weeks.”

 

Jesse pushes at the arm around his waist.  It doesn't move, solid like a prison bar — asshole probably doesn't even need to try.  Three weeks is a hell of a long time.  Jesse can't remember the last time he had to sit still for that long.

 

“Th’ fuck am I supposed to do around here for three weeks?”

 

“Read a book, Jesse, I don't fuckin’ know,” Reyes says, and his smile is audible, “Get a haircut.”

 

“My hair is fine.”

 

“It’s long.”

 

“I like it long.”

 

“So does Jack.”

 

“Guess you're outnumbered then.”

 

Reyes makes a humming sound, gives Jesse a squeeze, and then rolls away.  He slides off the bed with a fluidity that Jesse just loves to watch.  He wishes he could mimic it, in combat and in life.  Reyes shuffles towards the closet, kicks his fatigues off and pulls sweats on.  He's real pretty.

 

Jesse sits up against the headboard, draws his knees up and rests his chin on them like a kid.  Watches.  Reyes tugs his day-old undershirt off, and Jesse says, “Don't put on a clean one.”  His voice lilts up like it might be a question, but Reyes smiles at him and it's good, it's so good.

 

When he comes back to the bed, he kneels on it, grabs Jesse up, and kisses him like it's something he's wanted to do all day.  Over his shoulder, Jesse sees Morrison walk in; he picks up the clothes Reyes left on the floor.

 

They break apart, Reyes gives him a tiny push, and Jesse’s back hits the mattress.

 

———

 

Jesse’s back hits the mat.  Morrison is a dick.

 

“You're such a dick.”

 

“You're footing is sloppy.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Jesse’s lungs are starting to burn; too many wind-knocking blows and not enough time to catch his breath.  He stays on the floor this time, tries to breathe deep and slow.  Sweat rolls from his face into his hair, and it tickles.  He's too hot, probably an ugly shade of red, and his forearms are more sore than any other part of him.

 

“You want your water?” Morrison asks, and Jesse knows he's already grabbed it for him.  A hand appears above him and he takes it, uses it to pull himself upright.  Morrison is sweating too; his shirt is damp in the center, front and back, and Jesse thinks that he can't be doing _that_ bad.  Not if he got a super-soldier’s blood pumping.

 

Jesse takes his water bottle when it's offered, gulps down enough to feel it when it hits his gut.  There's still some ice left, and he holds the bottle up to his cheek.  It’s cold and nice.

 

“Let's go again.”

 

Jesse groans, presses the bottle to the other side of his face, “You're just gonna put me down again.”

 

“You want me to go easier on you?” Morrison asks, and he's got that stupid smirk on his face.  Jesse wants to slap it off.

 

“No, fuckin’– no,” he says.  He gets himself to his feet and tosses his water away.  It rolls, clunks against the wall, leaves a wet trail.

 

Jesse sets up, feet wide, solid, arms barricading his neck and chest.  He breathes deep, and Morrison comes at him, just like that.

 

He goes low, makes to drive a blow into his solar plexus, and Jesse pivots away.  He comes down with his elbow, hoping to hit a kidney, catches his hip instead.  Morrison backs off a step; he sweeps back in with a knee, angled at Jesse’s side.  He's too fuckin’ fast, and Jesse just barely skates out of the way, but it sets him off balance.

 

He knows he's fucked before Morrison’s fist even hits him.  The punch gets him right in the belly and he lands on his ass with a wheeze.  Shit.  Morrison looks down at him, eyebrow raised, and Jesse wonders what would happen if he kneed him right in the balls.

 

He'd probably be able to block it.  Fucker.

 

“Fucker,” he says, and his voice is a little raw and real tired.

 

“Is this what you’re gonna do when your gun is gone on a mission?” Morrison asks, and Jesse knows he’s just goading him, “Your talk ain’t that smooth, Jesse.  Get up.”

 

He isn’t offered a helping hand this time, and Jesse hauls himself to his feet with a groan.  He expects Morrison to give him a second, at least, but a kick comes at him almost immediately.  His guard comes up fast, and his forearms take the brunt of it, knock the blow askew.  Jesse doesn’t know exactly how long they’ve been at this, but he’s been blocking enough of Morrison’s moves to make the very bones in his arms ache.  He’s gonna bruise up real nice, and if he can’t take Morrison down, he won’t have jack-shit to show for it.

 

It’s tougher than it is with Reyes.  Morrison likes to come from underneath, likes to sneak by all his defenses and then hit him from behind.  He uses feints and little, bodily tricks that Jesse doesn't think should even be possible.  Jesse is more accustomed to the way Reyes comes at him: straight through rather than around.  And Morrison knows it.

 

Jesse is already back pedaling when Morrison swings at him again.  He and Reyes are both offensive as hell, Jesse barely has time to throw any punches of his own.  It pisses him off, makes him a little stupid.

 

Morrison’s next move is a feint to the left and Jesse can see it, moves towards it to avoid the right.  They're right in each other’s space, and Morrison looks so fucking haughty and _expectant_ that Jesse clenches his jaw, furrows his brow, makes a low noise in his throat that he wishes he could also make during sex.

 

That's when Morrison’s mouth cracks back into a smirk, and Jesse has had enough of his shit.

 

He sets a foot back, launches his weight forward, and headbutts the motherfucker.

 

Nothing cracks, but Morrison pitches backwards with a grunt, and Jesse follows him.  Chucks himself forward, throws his shoulder into Morrison’s gut.  He lands it square, but Morrison grabs ahold of him when he falls, drags him down too.

 

They hit the mat in a tumble, all tangled up, and Jesse’s fuckin’ forehead hurts.  But Morrison is on his back, and Jesse scrambles to straddle his chest.

 

“Damn, Jesse,” Morrison says, all in one breath.  Jesse’s pretty sure he didn't break it, but he watches as blood starts to leak from his nose.  Morrison must feel it, because he brings a hand up to wipe it away — ends up smearing it across his cheek.

 

It might be one of the sexiest things Jesse has ever fucking seen.

 

“I got you,” he says, dumb and definitely staring, “Did I get you?”

 

Morrison starts to sit up and Jesse shifts down to let him.  The blood comes a little quicker once he's vertical.  Jesse watches it, watches it ooze over Morrison’s big hand when he tries to wipe it again.  Damn.

 

“You got me damn good, kid,” he says and, hell, he's pretty.  Jesse looks at his blue eyes and Morrison just looks right back.

 

“Not a kid,” He replies, but it's just a string of words that don't mean anything to him anymore.  He squirms, lands himself more comfortably in Morrison’s lap, finds that the guy’s fuckin’ hard.   _Damn._  He blinks, tries not to let himself grin too big, “This really gets you goin’ huh?”

 

Morrison says, “Guess so,” but he doesn't look surprised at all.  He presses a finger to the side of his nose, holds the bleeding side closed to try and get it to stop.

 

“Busted vessel?” Jesse asks.  He really, really doesn't want to climb out of Morrison’s lap, so he doesn't.  He plants his hands on Morrison’s ribs, leans a little further into his space.

 

“Probably,” Morrison replies.  He looks smug under the mess of blood on his face, like he knows he's holding the winning lotto ticket before the numbers are even read.  “Might bruise.”

 

“Can't wait,” Jesse says, and he means it.  His gut tickles, feels warm and tight, right above his pelvis.  His cock twitches up.  He says, “‘M gonna kiss you now,” and he does.

 

He pulls Morrison’s hand away from his face.  He tastes like blood and not a lot else.  Coffee, maybe.  Jesse edges his tongue into his mouth, licks across his teeth.  Morrison kisses him back because he always does, _always_ , and Jesse doesn't need anything other than that.

 

———

 

They kiss again in the shower.  It's a little meaner, a little rougher.  Morrison has a thing for teeth; he uses them on Jesse like weapons, like knives, until his lips are bitten red and there's marks on his throat.

 

Jesse’s back is pressed to the wall, and he's warm all over.  The water from the shower barely touches him, Morrison is so big, but the air is humid and steamy and Morrison is touching him everywhere he can.

 

Morrison does, indeed, have a bruise.  It arcs over his nose and leaks into the space under his left eye.  It’ll be gone by tomorrow evening, but Jesse doesn't care.  He gets to see it now and know that he put it there.  Jesse threads his fingers into Morrison’s short hair, pulls him down, presses a kiss to the bruise, then his brow.  He holds him there and Morrison let's him — he grins.

 

“Wanna suck you off,” he says, and Morrison’s mouth finds his neck again.  He bites, but Jesse could let him do this all fucking day, head back, eyes half closed, cock hard.

 

Morrison hums and it's a noise that makes Jesse’s toes curl.  Then he says, “No, I’ll do you,” right into the throb of his pulse-point and Jesse has to remind himself how to breathe.

 

“‘Kay,” he replies, more a sigh than anything.  His wet hair sticks to his forehead and he pushes it back.  He's gonna wanna see this.

 

When Morrison gets on his knees, the hot water hits Jesse’s chest and he melts a little.  He doesn't realize how shaky he is until Morrison grips his hips, takes a bunch of his weight.  Jesse’s hands are still in his hair.

 

Reyes is the one that teases, so Jesse is mostly prepared for Morrison’s tongue to slide up the side of his cock.  It feels great, like any other warm mouth, but the sight is what gets him real good.  Morrison has his eyes up, watching Jesse watch him, and Jesse’s cock drools slick.

 

Morrison mouths him up, mouths back down, wraps a loose hand around whichever half his tongue isn't on, and drags his thumb through Jesse’s wet slit.  It makes his hips jump, jerk forward, and Morrison puts that hand on the center of his belly, beneath his navel.  Holds him still.

 

Jesse groans, huffs out a big breath and tries to keep himself flush against the wall.  His fingers are tight in Morrison’s hair — they get tighter when Morrison fits his lips around the head of his cock, and, God, he’s so good.

 

He takes Jesse down steady and slow, so hot and wet and nice, and it turns Jesse into a fucking mess.  He wants to fuck Morrison’s throat.  He wants Morrison to hold him down and fuck _his_ throat.  He wants Morrison to keep staring at him with his stupid, blue eyes.

 

He breathes, “Jesus,” and it’s like that’s all Morrison wanted.

 

He pulls off enough to wedge his tongue into Jesse’s slit, and then slides back down again.  Rinses and repeats, and Jesse twitches and shakes.  He bucks up, feels a little give in Morrison’s hands, and it makes his lungs trip and stutter.  He tries again, finds that Morrison has given him leeway, wiggle room, a longer leash.

 

He fucks up, low and shallow, but Morrison’s mouth slides over him just fucking fine.  He goes a little deeper, feels the back of Morrison’s throat once, twice, a few more times, and Jesse swallows so hard it hurts.

 

Morrison is fucking gorgeous.  He doesn't stop staring, and the bruise on his face makes him so, so pretty.  Jesse ain't gonna last for shit.

 

His gut is tight and he can barely keep himself from drooling down his own chest.  He feels it in his spine like something living, and Morrison must know, because he shoves Jesse’s hips back against the wall, takes all his room away, just like that.  It makes Jesse whine, high and pathetic.

 

He looks from the tight, red line of his mouth around his cock to Morrison’s eyes, blue like his uniform and so blown out.  Morrison sucks him down to the root, and pulls back up with his fucking teeth, catches them on the corona, and that’s really all it takes to make Jesse come.

 

His head hits the shower wall with a thunk he can't hear and his eyes roll back.  He seizes up, yanks at Morrison’s hair.  He wants to let himself sink down, wants to feel the tile under his knees, but suddenly Morrison is right there, holding him up.

 

Jesse’s mouth is open and Morrison kisses him hard.  He tastes like come and Jesse is pretty sure he swallowed.  It makes him wish he could come again, but he's already slack and loose; he kisses sloppy, lets Morrison commandeer his mouth, but his hand finds the other man’s cock nice and easy.

 

He wants to watch, but Morrison keeps kissing him, wraps his own hand around Jesse’s to help him keep a rhythm, help him squeeze at the base and pull up.

 

Jesse doesn't think it's anything special, but eventually Morrison rests his head in the crook of Jesse’s neck and shoulder, guides them to a quicker pace.  Jesse tucks his nose into his hair.

 

He’s real quiet, tightened up like a tripwire, but when he comes he sighs, big and long, and Jesse can feel him soften against him.  He pulls his hand out from under Morrison’s, reaches around to rinse it off, and runs it down his side.  Up, down, up again.

 

They stay there for a long while, until Jesse thinks Morrison maybe fell asleep on him. He starts squirming a little, and it makes Morrison nose up his throat, kiss him again.  When he pulls away, Jesse wishes he hadn't.

 

The water is still hot, though, and Jesse cleans up slow and lazy, content to watch Morrison do the same.  He likes the way his super-soldier muscles move under his skin.  He likes that he has freckles on his shoulders, on his back.

 

When they towel off, Morrison pulls sweatpants on and nothing else, and Jesse wonders if they can go for round two later.  He wouldn't complain.  He drags his own sleep clothes on and follows Morrison out to the bedroom.  Jesse is never going to get enough of their private bathroom.

 

He yawns when he sees the bed, pavlovian as hell, and falls down on it, a messy spread of limbs and wet hair.

 

“Is _jefe_ callin’ tonight?” he asks, face pressed into the bedsheets.  He feels like a liquid.

 

“Should be,” Morrison replies, “I’ll wake you up if he does.”

 

Jesse feels the bed dip when he sits down, looks up to see him with a stack of paperwork and his tablet.  Gonna be a late night, then.

 

“Who says ’m gonna fall asleep?”

 

Morrison smiles at him, lopsided, and says, “I do.”

 

Jesse wrinkles his nose at him.  Asshole.  He's gonna stay awake just to fuckin’ spite him.

 

He falls asleep to the sound of Morrison’s inked signature and his fingers tap, tap, tapping away.

 

———

 

There's a hand in his hair and it feels so, so nice.  He doesn't want to open his eyes because the hand might go away, so he makes a noise, puts his own hand over the other so that it stays there.

 

But there's a jingling in his ear that really needs to stop.  He twists around, tries to get away from the sound.  Kicks his legs out like a kid.

 

“Jesse,” he hears, and his eyes squint open.  Morrison’s hand is still in his hair — it doesn't move.

 

“Shit,” he mumbles, and then the jingling sound stops.

 

Morrison is sitting cross-legged against the headboard, tablet in front of him, propped up on his small mound of files and physical documents.  Reyes flickers on the screen for a second, then becomes clearer, and the first thing out of his mouth is, “What the fuck happened to you?”

 

Morrison smiles, shrugs, and Jesse drags himself close enough to rest his head on his thigh, drape his arms around Morrison’s waist.

 

“I got ‘im,” he says, muffled.

 

“Jesse McCree got _you_?” Reyes asks, and Jesse is a little insulted.  But only a little.

 

“Only once.”

 

“Once is enough, Jack.”

 

Jesse watches him on the screen and he looks like he knows exactly what happened after Jesse _got him_.  Must be a thing.  Morrison is full of surprises.

 

“He busted up my nose.  How’s Singapore?”

 

Reyes snorts, “ _Colorful_.  Omnic pop is fuckin’ huge here.”

 

Jesse asks, “Genji?”

 

“He’s fine.  He ain't _happy_  but he's fine.”

 

“He’ll figure it out,” Morrison says.  He’s warm and comfortable, but Goddamn if Jesse doesn’t wish he were there, skulking around with Genji, pissing Reyes off.  Puttin’ holes in the bad guys instead of jerky training bots.

 

“Base okay?”

 

“Paperwork’s piling up, you gonna have more to add?”

 

“Always do.”

 

They’re talking the way they always are when Jesse’s around: nice and normal, unbothered.  Jesse figures they both know he likes to listen — figures they don’t give a shit.  He digs his nose into Morrison’s thigh.

 

“When’ll you be back?”

 

“Few days.  I’ll let you know.  Tell you what — ‘m missin’ my boy right about now.”

 

Morrison laughs, “He’s missin’ you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments and corrections are highly appreciated - thxxx


End file.
